Knives and Wanderers

October 8, 2006

While working in the garden I’m asked, at least once a month, whether or not I am Dr. Schubert M.D., Physician and Surgeon.

The man or woman usually points at the shingle over our nearly century-old carport and look at me wantingly. I answer no and explain the sign belonged to the man who built the house in 1927 and belonged to he and his wife until both their deaths in the early 80’s.

Usually the person listens kindly to me for a moment, then explains a medical problem of one sort or another and its then I understand why they are asking. And why I’ve seen them pass by my house several times pretending to be taking a walk, like some kind of jilted lover pacing in front of their former girlfriend’s house.

It’s at these moments I feel sorry for doctors, though we often see the best part of their lives, say their beautiful cars, large houses, and prestige in society in general (“Oh, you’re a doctor,” people say to them, moving them up a notch or two in their mind’s eye.) What we don’t see, however, is the sadness associated with living life in general that so many people want to share with doctors. That many times we are just tired, worn out, and want an ear to bend for even a few minutes. We may not want to burden our friends and work associates with these very personal problems, but a doctor (who is many times a complete stranger) has the odd role as an authority figure with their finger on the pulse of the miracles of life.

We hear the ads that tell us if we are consistently sad, find ourselves crying when we awaken, we should ask our doctor about Naproxium or some such drug. Society has told us doctors can take care of many problems that were long ago referred to priests, ministers, monks, and/or phrenologists. And, while true doctors have a great many anti-depressants in their drawers, they went to school to learn physiology, not psychology. I wonder how they can handle it.

So today, while raking leaves I listened to a fellow named Don who told me his mother owned the duplex across the way, which is the house where he was born. He looked okay, but he didn’t sound well. He told me he lived up in Sun Valley (an aptly name scorching part of the San Fernando Valley) and was staying with his mother because he might need surgery. I didn’t ask about the surgery, because it seemed rude to ask. But I did wonder, why would he tell me, a complete stranger, and one he now knew, who was not a Physician and Surgeon?

Maybe he just wanted to be heard, I supposed many people do. People like me go to therapists because we know at least they won’t let us go on forever complaining, they’ll help figure out what’s making us feel so poorly, then give us some homework to try to work it out. But for the majority of people they think going to a therapist shows some kind of weakness, as if they were admitting to everyone life was just too hard for them. Even if it actually is.

Don eventually told me his lower back had been giving him severe pain in both his legs (I diagnosed it was a problem with his sciatica, weirdly) and he was apprehensive about going under the knife, because he’d never had surgery before.

I told him I’d had a couple of surgeries and the techniques have come so far that people are now in and out of hospitals in hours instead of days. He asked about my surgeries. I told him about my broken jaw, he looked for the scar and I showed him it, and about my corneal rip, a surgery from which I was able to drive myself home 30 minutes later.

I said he was in one of the best places in the country for surgeons, to which he told me he was flying to Florida, where he found the expert in this area. I laughed and said he’d obviously done his homework, he had nothing to fear at all, he’d be okay.

I told him I’d better get back to the lawn or it’d never get done. He told me it was nice talking to me and hoped I’d see him walking with a smile on his face very soon. I told him I hoped so, too.

As I was walking back to my mower he added that it was nice meeting me, as if just the act of talking to me wasn’t enough, he was actually glad he met me in the first place. I said it was nice meeting him, too.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, but it was indeed a pleasure meeting him.